


Cassoulet

by Murreleteer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Stomach Ache, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murreleteer/pseuds/Murreleteer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos and Porthos may not think much of each other, but on miserable winter night far from home, Porthos takes ill, and they must find comfort where they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cassoulet

**Author's Note:**

> Contains references to canon-levels of depression, alcohol abuse and suicidal thoughts. Because Athos. -sighs-
> 
> Originally posted on the kink meme [here](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=85254#cmt85254)
> 
> Prompt: _Having grown up hand to mouth for a long, long time, until he joined the musketeers really, Porthos has trouble eating. It's not that he doesn't like to, because he definitely does, but his stomach can't handle much and he has to be careful with quantities or else he suffers from some pretty downright torturous stomach aches._
> 
> _One night, after a long mission, he's not quite as careful as he ought to have been and suffers the consequences, except this time he has someone there to provide comfort._

The rain had turned into snow about two leagues out of Castelnaudary, encasing their saturated cloaks in an immovable layer of sleet. Athos tied his scarf more tightly around his face, but it did little to cut the wind of snow. By the time he and Porthos reached the inn, the wool had frozen to his beard. When his horse nipped at him as he passed it off to the ostler, Athos didn't even have the heart to box his ears. If he'd been that horse, he'd have bit his rider too.

The inn itself improved his mood. It was a solid stone building that did much to keep the snow out and the heat of the roaring fire in, and served a palatable Grenache and heaping servings of something consisting largely of beans, sausage and goose fat. They both wolfed it down before it was quite cool enough, but Athos couldn't regret his scorched tongue for the way the warmth filled his belly. They'd eaten saddle rations at midday, but the cold and the wet had sapped their strength until, now, Athos' hands trembled with fatigue.

Porthos hadn't said a word to him since they'd discussed the road that morning, and Athos couldn't say he blamed the man. In the few months since Athos had joined the Musketeers, he'd seen very little of Porthos. The only reason he was here now instead of Porthos' sworn brother Aramis was that the latter was recovering from a sword wound to the leg and couldn't ride. Athos also suspected that Captain Treville wanted to see how he got on with working in tandem on long assignments, even fool's errands to the Spanish border.

Unfortunately, Porthos had proven almost as taciturn as Athos himself, and they'd run out of things to say to one another after the second day out of Paris. A dozen more days in constant company hadn't seemed to engender any kind of comradeship.

In truth, Athos regretted this. He hadn't gone into the Musketeers looking for anything but an honourable death in the king's service, but he had to admit that watching the ease of company between Porthos and Aramis stirred some kind of envy in his heart. He had never found it easy to bridge the gulf between himself and others, especially strangers, had never had Thomas' natural talent of making people love him, and when they seemed to... well, best not to dwell on that. It was all gone now.

Across from him, Porthos was scraping the last of the stew from his trencher. Athos sipped his wine and watched him eat, feeling oddly encouraged. He'd noticed that his companion seemed to be somewhat picky, almost bird-like, in his eating habits, and it was good to see him pack away an honest meal.

They finished the first bottle together in weary silence, but when Athos waved for another, Porthos shook his head. "I'm done in," he said. "See you tomorrow."

Athos nodded, noting the heaviness in Porthos' gait as he climbed the stair to their rooms. He wondered if they should delay for a day, at least until the weather cleared, and give men and horses a chance to rest. He considered the best way to go about it as he finished the second bottle. He didn't think that Porthos would go easy for his own sake, but perhaps Athos could claim fatigue on his part, or his horse's. He hoped that Porthos wouldn't think him soft for doing so, or report the same back to Captain Treville. He had not been in the regiment so long that he could be seen to be slacking off.

The wine gone, Athos pushed himself to his feet and trudged up the stairs. The boy had said that he'd put Athos' saddle bags in the second room along the hall, with Porthos' in the first, so when Athos heard a sound from that first room, he paused, listening. Hazed in wine, his mind hadn't quite registered what it had heard, just that the noise should not be there, like listening to a lute that had a course out of tune with itself. He hesitated at the top of the stair, ears straining, the flickering light of his candle seeming to make every creak of wind on shutters all the louder.

He'd almost dismissed the whole encounter as his imagination, when he heard it again. This time, it was clearly a man's voice. A man, or a kicked dog, the high, plaintive whimper sent a chill down Athos' spine. When he heard it again, he tapped at the door, softly calling Porthos' name.

Athos tried again, more loudly, and still hearing no reply tried the handle. The room was unlocked. He pushed the door open, realising that were everything fine, he was committing an unpardonable breach of privacy.

Porthos lay curled on top of the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, arms warped around his stomach. In the time it took Athos to cross to the bed, Porthos whole body had convulsed several times. Each wave of agony seemed to start at his centre and shoot out, causing his legs to jerk and his shoulders to curl inward. Porthos' own candle had gone out, but when Athos brought his close enough, he could see that his eyes were squeezed so tightly closed that a glimmer of tears clung to the lashes. He'd gotten his boots, belt and jacket off, but little else.

Athos set the candle on the nightstand, and crouched beside the bed, touching Porthos' shoulder. "Porthos," he whispered, then, more loudly, "Porthos, can you hear me?"

"Aramis?"

"No, it's..."

"Oh. You. Go 'way, Athos." His voice sounded strangled and not nearly as forceful as he probably meant it to be.

"Are you hurt?" Athos pressed. "What's wrong with you?"

Porthos tried to say something like "I'm fine," but another spasm caught him and he folded in on himself. His shoulders shook with the force of it, and his breath came in staccato gasps. Unsure of what else he might do, Athos kept his hand on Porthos' shoulder, stroking his upper arm with his thumb.

"Clearly you are not 'fine,'" Athos said when Porthos' breathing slowed and his legs uncurled minutely. 

"Go. Away." Porthos seemed to put his last strength into those words, and slumped against the pillow.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong." For himself, Athos would be happy to leave well enough alone, but if the man was going to die on his watch, he should probably do something. And Porthos had expected Aramis to be there; he'd expected not to have to be alone.

At first, Athos thought he wasn't going to get an answer, that Porthos would pretend he wasn't there until he finally did leave, but his hissing, shallow breaths seemed to build to enough strength to say, "My own fault," he grunted, voice so thin that Athos had to lean in to hear it. "Ate too fast. So tired I got stupid and didn't remember. Nothing you can do. I'll be fine in the morning."

"I understand," Athos said. Thomas had had a sensitive stomach when it came to some meats, eventually coming to avoid venison altogether. Before that, their nurse had shown him how to manage. He patted Porthos' shoulder and rose to his feet. "Don't go anywhere."

Porthos' laugh choked off as another spasm overtook him, and a whimper of pain hastened Athos out out the door.

* * *

Porthos sighed in relief as the latch clicked behind Athos. He didn't know what was more humiliating, being stupid enough to do this to himself, or whimpering like a child within twenty leagues of Athos' hearing. At least he was gone now, apparently satisfied by Porthos' explanation and hopefully back to his own room for the rest of the night. Spending all day every day for coming on a fortnight with the blue-blooded prig was bad enough. Porthos could only imagine Athos being completely intolerable now that he knew he had something over on him. Even if he had been almost kind the few minutes he was in the room. Porthos could think of few things worse than suffering Athos de No Family Name to _kind_ to him.

Athos had sloped into the regiment several months before. He was a fine swordsmen, and a good shot, fair enough, but Porthos had sweated and bled for six years to earn his letter of recommendation to the King's Musketeers. Watching Athos simply walk in from nowhere, as though the king owed him a place, which His Majesty probably did, galled Porthos to the core.

As he curled around his knees, trying to fold himself into non-existence and thus escape the pain, Porthos decided that he'd probably be willing to overlook Athos' casual attitude towards duty if the man had a single likeable quality. As it was, he drank excessively and morosely, kept to himself unless ordered to do otherwise, rarely said anything, and when he did speak Porthos had a difficult time telling if he was being sarcastic or if he honestly disliked everyone and everything.

He had certainly looked as through he'd rather have slept in fermented fish guts then ride to the edge of Roussillon and back in Porthos' company. Porthos had tried not to take that personally. He suspected that Athos scorned the world in equal measure, but he couldn't entirely avoid speculation as to whether Athos would have thought the same if partnered with someone who had not manufactured his own birth date and surname, or at least someone of a lighter hue.

It hadn't helped that Porthos spent half the mission thus far sick with worry over Aramis, who was not complaining of his wound, and therefore might be dying of it. The man would wail at a hangnail, but run him through, and he'd claim he didn't feel a thing.

Had Aramis been here, he would have smacked Porthos for eating that much. He had never seen the ill effects, but had prodded Porthos for eating lightly until he'd finally admitted the cause. Growing up hand to mouth, with nothing in his hand _or_ his mouth as often as not, seemed to have knocked Porthos' guts permanently out of balance. Even now, too much rich food, especially too much too fast, tied his stomach in fiery knots for hours, with no apparent cure past weathering it out.

As the last wave of convulsions abated, lulling the pain in his gut to a steady, heart-pounding ache, Porthos realised that he was cold. He rolled over and half-heartedly tried to tug the bedclothes over him. Moving only made the pain worse, and he clutched miserably at the edge of the blanket, trying to breath through the pain without unmanning himself.

At least Athos wasn't here to listen, though he could probably hear the cries through the wall. Porthos bit his lip until he tasted blood, willing himself not to weep, trying, and failing to stay silent as a grave. Stupidly, he wished Aramis were with him. His friend might not have been able to abate the physical pain, but his company never failed to have a lightening effect. Which did Porthos little good when Aramis was three hundred leagues away, barely able to walk, let alone ride. That thought filled Porthos with shame over his own self-centredness. Surely Aramis needed Porthos more than the reverse, right now. He cursed Treville for separating them, cursed himself for agreeing to the mission, orders or no, and, in the spirit of inclusion, cursed Athos generally.

Porthos clung to the blanket, the harsh sound of his breath filling his ears, pain and exhaustion utterly overwhelming him, and wished he were anywhere, or anyone, else.

He didn't hear the door click open, but flinched as the floorboards creaked under heavy boots. The hand was on his shoulder again, warm and steady. He tried to shrug it off this time, knowing it wasn't Aramis, but choked on the pain.

"Easy." Athos pitched his voice low, as though speaking to a spooked horse. "Easy. I can help you." The same gentle hands peeled the blanket back, not trying to take it away from Porthos, but balling it by his shoulder. "Here, lift your arms for me."

He slid something bulky down in front of Porthos' stomach, and Porthos would have flinched away except he knew the consequences. Instead he felt gingerly around the shape: something hard wrapped in cloth. Something warm. "What?"

Another something pressed against the small of his back, equally warm. "Only hot bricks," Athos told him in that same placating tone. "They'll help; trust me." He straightened the blanket, tugging it down over Porthos' body and trapping the warmth of the bricks around him.

By the time the blanket was smoothed and tucked and patted around him, the bricks actually did seem to be working a curious sympathetic magic. His stomach still burned, but it had settled to embers, not a conflagration. A few minutes later, he realised the convulsions tapered into the odd spasmodic twitch.

"Is that better?" Athos asked, and Porthos realised that he was still there. He craned his head around to look at the man, finding him sitting on his haunches next to the bed, frowning in what looked like concern. "I found that it can cause the pain to lessen."

"Yeah," Porthos admitted. "It's helping a bit." He clutched at the bundle in front of him, pressing it close. It helped much more than that. "Thanks."

Athos nodded, but didn't move.

"I'll be fine," Porthos said, not understanding why he was still there. "You can go back to your room now."

The corner of Athos' mouth curled up into that familiar, sardonic half-smile. "Alas, my room has a draught." He shifted to settle on the stool next to the bed, resting his back against the wall and stretching his legs out across the floor. "I hoped to stay here until the innkeeper finds me something more temperate than Pic de Néthou."

"Seriously?" Athos' room was closest to the chimney, and had to be a good deal warmer, draught or no.

Athos lifted one shoulder and let it fall, clearly not expecting Porthos to have believed a word. Then he lit a second candle and produced a book.

Defeated, Porthos slumped back against his pillow. He could hardly ask the man to leave, and he wasn't sure he saw the point. The room fell silent. Porthos' breathing had evened out and quieted, and the only other sound came as the occasional rustle of paper as Athos turned a page.

Porthos wasn't sure what to do. Though he no longer felt as though his guts were trying to eat their way out, he didn't feel comfortable enough to sleep, despite the warmth of the bed and the weariness that seemed to creep into his very bones. It occurred to him that Athos had ridden every mile he had, in the same vile weather, drunk a good deal besides, and had to be utterly wrecked by now. Yes here he was, sitting bed watch over a man he very probably disliked. If it had been within Porthos' power to to dislodge him back to his room, he would have, for both their sake, but words hadn't gotten him anywhere, he didn't have the strength for anything else.

After several more minutes, he gave up on sleep and asked Athos what he was reading.

"Oh, Sorel." He sounded faintly embarrassed, which only made Porthos want to know more.

"I didn't think you'd go for novels." If he'd been forced to bet, Porthos would have put his money on Montaigne at best, if not Augustine, in Latin. "What's it about?"

"It's a comedy." Athos said. The pages rustled again. "Would you like to hear it?"

Porthos immediately thought of Aramis and his claim to have been merely reading aloud to a lady. Still, it would kill the time and perhaps distract him from his stomach. "If you like."

"I apologise for starting part way through the series. I didn't bring the first volume," Athos said, then began to read.

He had a good voice, Porthos decided, clearly the product of childhood elocution lessons, curling around and caressing each word as it left his lips. His courtly accent only added to ridiculousness of the content, to the point where Porthos realised that he was playing it up for effect. Starting in to middle, Porthos indeed had little idea of the characters, but let the words roll over him, catching bits here and there, but mostly listening for the sake of hearing another voice.

He didn't realise he'd fallen asleep until Athos prodded him enough to replace the bricks with freshly warmed ones. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but Athos' fresh candle had burned low.

"I'll be in my room," Athos said softly, giving his shoulder a last pat before he departed.

Porthos, finding the pain had subsided to only the faintest ache, tried to summon up some remark about draughts and mountaintops, but, by the time he did, the door closed behind Athos and the chance was lost.

Not long after dawn, Porthos went in search of the innkeeper to engage their rooms for another night. No sense either of them going out in the snow, he decided. Besides, Athos deserved to sleep in.


End file.
